Winning and Waiting
by chocolatebearturk
Summary: Sometimes waking up from the nightmare doesn't bring relief.


_Winning and Waiting_  
potr

* * *

Late at night, when her husband is already asleep, she lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. She doesn't move, she barely blinks, she just lies there… and remembers. Her husband doesn't know, of course. Who would believe her? Sometimes she doesn't believe it herself. And yet… every morning she gets up and walks slowly, hesitantly, to the mirror. Sometimes she stands there for what feels like hours, staring into her own haunted eyes, tracing the nonexistent outline of where _the mark_ used to be.

When she sleeps, she dreams of winning. She dreams of her number being called over and over, of getting blackjack time after time, of perfect sevens and thousands of chips. She dreams of the rush of excitement, the thrill tingling down to her toes… where it all runs out, leaving her empty. So, so empty that the only thing that can fill her again is another win, another rush, another thrill. She wakes up in a cold sweat from these dreams, feet tingling with phantom pains.

She burns the brown outfit and avoids the color red. She flinches away from bright lights for three whole months before she can relax in her own home.

Sometimes, when she finally manages to calm herself after a nightmare, she dreams of waiting. Hushed whispers, words of comfort, an unfamiliar arm around her shoulders. She dreams of confusion and fear and a wish to be _anywhere_ but here—but kind eyes with sympathy keep her sane. Trying to figure out their names _(Betty and Sam)_ and where they come from _(San Francisco)_ and why they're here _(to be drained of every last _drop_ of hullabaloo)_. She wakes up crying from these dreams, but feeling a little less lost.

* * *

It's five months, twelve days, eighteen hours and seven minutes after she gets back to our side of the Looking Glass that she finds him. She's picking up a loaf of bread and comparing prices in her mind when she spots that familiar face. Shock takes over her features for one single second before the bread drops from her hands and she's racing across the slick linoleum. She almost doesn't catch him before he goes down another aisle, but she manages to grab his sleeve.

"John!" she says excitedly, taking his blank look for surprise. "I never thought I'd see you again! Why didn't you tell me you lived in San Francisco?"

He looks down at her hand on his shirt and for a moment, she's just as confused as he. She _knows_ him, she's sure. He's wearing his uniform, just like before, and though he's lost a bit of weight, she could never forget that face. They sat together in that waiting room for what had felt like days, trying to remember. And later, after, he'd found her and thanked her for helping keep him sane. That was when they'd traded names, when they'd made their final goodbyes.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" he asks slowly, tilting up the brim of his hat. She lets go of his uniform sleeve, suddenly self-conscious. "You look awfully familiar. And how did you know my name?"

She gazes into his eyes and notices how clear they are, with only a hint of shadows to suggest that something had ever been different. He isn't haunted, not like she is, and it becomes clear that he's forgotten, may never remember.

"No, sorry," she says finally, giving him the best smile she can muster. "It must've been a coincidence."

When she walks away, she doesn't look back.

* * *

One year, almost to the day, after she comes home, her husband tells her that he wants a divorce. She doesn't cry or argue, but ducks her head and sighs. Wonderland is too big a secret to share, but also too big a secret to keep. It's been tearing her to shreds ever since.

* * *

Two years, eight weeks, and thirteen minutes after the encounter with John, she is sitting at a bus stop. Something about sitting and waiting both calms and terrifies her, even after all this time. A small rational part of her knows that she isn't going to be accosted, but it does nothing to ease the worry that makes her heart pound. It's only when she closes her eyes and imagines whispered words in her ear, telling her that everything will be okay, that she can make herself breathe.

A noise distracts her from her panic and she looks up. A boy has run out into the street and into the path of an oncoming car. Before she knows what she is doing, she's launched herself out of her seat. Adrenaline pumps through her veins and her heart is pounding in her ears as she sweeps the child up and into her arms, away from the blaring horn and certain death.

"Jeremy!" cries a voice. She turns, balancing the shaking boy on one hip, and sees a pair of men running her way. The younger of the two, looking to be about seventeen years old, takes Jeremy from her, and pats his back as he begins to weep. She smiles softly and runs a hand through the boy's hair before she turns to the man who is presumably the father. The air in her lungs leaves her in a _whoosh_ and she stares.

"Sam?" she chokes.

In a hoarse whisper, he answers, "Betty?"

They stand there for what feels like hours, just staring at one another. She's surprised at how hungrily his eyes (shadowed and haunted, just like hers) roam the planes of her face and he surprises himself when he reaches out and lightly traces the space on her cheek where _the mark_ is no longer. Her eyes train themselves on his forehead, where his own mark had curled around his brow and can't help the slow smile that stretches across her face.

"I, uh… I guess you remember?" she says quietly.

His own smile sets out to rival hers. "Yeah. I do."

* * *

Five years after getting back from the longest nightmare of her life, Betty Fisher (now Betty Newman), lies in bed late at night, staring at the ceiling. Her husband lies next to her, breathing softly and slowly. His nightmares have long since faded, while hers wake her still, leaving her sobbing or gasping for breath. Sam never gets tired of this routine, of waking and pulling her close to whisper in her ear.

They find others, some who remember and some who don't. They decide that Taylor and Jeremy are better off knowing than not (though it takes some convincing and a visit to the Glass itself to make Taylor believe). They fight and they make up, they laugh and they live.

It's seven years, two months, a week, and a day before Betty can sleep through a whole night without once waking and fearing for her life. And when she rolls over and sees Sam's sleeping face, she smiles and knows that it was worth the wait.

* * *

_end_


End file.
